Chapter 8 - The Vault Beneath the Pedestal
Twenty minutes later, a heavy black Cadillac SUV pulled into the alley behind Gia’s workshop, its tires splashing through the puddles of rain.
Dante stepped out of the vehicle himself, wearing a dark navy wool suit and a charcoal trench coat, his eyes dark with immediate concern as he walked through her rear workshop entrance.
Gia was standing by her workbench, the printed bank record and her floor plan drawings spread out under her bright task lamps.
“Show me,” Dante commanded quietly, walking up to the bench without hesitation.
Gia pointed a finger at the bank statement Harrison Vance had provided. “Someone transferred thirty thousand dollars into my corporate account on Tuesday. I didn't see it because my accountant only reconciles our primary ledger on Fridays.”
Dante looked at the transaction code, his dark eyes narrowing into razor-thin slits. “MEH Logistics LLC is an old shell company my uncle used in 2005. It was dissolved seven years ago.”
“Which means whoever framed me had access to your family’s old financial records,” Gia said, looking up into his face.
“Yes,” Dante murmured, his voice dropping into a tone of lethal calm. “Someone who knows the inner workings of both the Moretti legal history and the Vance family’s corporate architecture.”
Gia turned to her workbench, pulling out her printed blueprint of the auction house floor. “That’s not all. Look at this.”
Dante leaned over her shoulder, his arm resting lightly against the edge of the workbench as he looked down at the blueprinted cross-section.
“Arthur Vance built a sub-vault beneath the main gallery floor in 1994,” Gia explained, pointing her pencil at the hidden hydraulic panel. “The weight load specs for that central pedestal were rated for six thousand pounds—far more than a marble torso requires. The pedestal wasn't just a display stand, Dante. It’s the lock mechanism for the room underneath.”
Dante stared at the blueprint, a dark, heavy realization breaking over his sharp features. “The railroad spike.”
Gia looked at him. “What about it?”
“The spike left on the velvet block last night,” Dante said softly. “It wasn't forged iron. It was cut from reinforced tool steel. If you drive a steel pin into a hydraulic release valve...”
“It locks the vault mechanism permanently,” Gia finished, her mind instantly grasping the mechanical sequence. “Whoever took the torso didn't just steal a piece of art. They triggered the emergency lockdown on the vault underneath it, sealing whatever is inside that sub-basement until someone pulls that steel pin out!”
Dante looked down at her, his hands coming down on the edge of the workbench, trapping her gently between his arms. His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes burning with an intense, fierce light that made the air between them feel charged with electricity.
“You are brilliant, Gia Parker,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with genuine admiration.
Gia felt her breath hitch in her chest, her hand resting on the paper near his wrist. “I'm an event designer who doesn't want to go to federal prison for a murder that happened when I was eight years old.”
“You are not going to prison,” Dante swore quietly, his thumb reaching out to gently touch the side of her jawline, his skin warm and surprisingly rough against her face. “I will burn the Vance Foundation to the ground before I let them place a finger on you.”
Gia looked into his eyes, feeling the absolute weight of his promise—a promise backed by thirty years of power, money, and violence, but spoken with a raw, undeniable tenderness that went straight to her core.
“How do we get back into that building?” Gia asked softly.
Dante’s thumb traced the line of her cheekbone before he pulled his hand back, his smile returning—faint, dangerous, and utterly decisive.
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“The Vance Auction House is holding a formal crime-reconstruction walkthrough tonight at eight o'clock,” Dante said. “Requested by the insurance underwriters and attended by Eleanor Vance, her legal team, and the NYPD.”
Gia pulled her wire cutters from her belt, clicking them together with a sharp, metallic sound. “Then I suggest we offer them our professional consulting services.”
